


Bloodied Gold

by durinsreign



Series: Worse Than Death [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Bilbo is So Done, Blood and Violence, Bonding, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Cussing, Dreams and Nightmares, Dwalin Disapproves, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Gun Violence, Late Night Conversations, Love/Hate, M/M, Multi, Nori is a Little Shit, Norj Likes Shiny Things, Pain, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Protective Thorin, Realization, Strangers to Lovers, Survival, Tattoos, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, Thorin Is an Idiot, Trauma, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/durinsreign/pseuds/durinsreign
Summary: What could any of them have done to deserve a death so cruel? One that was not even permanent; their bodies rose and reanimated into something that wasn't quite right. Something that didn't know anything beyond ceaseless hunger.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Nori (Tolkien), Kíli/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Worse Than Death [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682245
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Bag-End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone that helped me through the process!
> 
> Tags will be updated.
> 
> Tharkûn is the name Gandalf was given from the Dwarves.
> 
> Fidan is Dís's husband. :)

———————————————

The East took a hard nosedive toward desolation, but the West seemed virtually untouched, if not naive. Past the Misty Mountains, the settlements looked to still prosper as half of Arda crumbled. 

Thorin couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy in the pit of his stomach the further he traveled. His home had been overrun and destroyed by this sickness, yet west of the Misty Mountains, there wasn't any sign of the chaos. He wouldn't wish an epidemic among anyone else, but the brief thought that Mahal had done this to punish him — to punish his people — didn't sit right with him.

What could any of them have done to deserve a death so cruel? One that was not even permanent; their bodies rose and reanimated into something that wasn't quite right. Something that didn't know anything beyond ceaseless hunger.

Dwalin nudged him carefully. “Brooding will do you no good, cousin.” He said, then made a vague gesture to his face. “Unless you want to look like _that_ all the time.” Thorin shoved him, scoffing. 

“As if you do not do the same. Even more so, if I recall. It would happen to you before me.” Dwalin shook his head, but laughed.  
Ered Luin was not so bad. The food was plentiful, yet the water was an odd color at times. The accents clashed, and those from Erebor wore clothes of different make that made them stand out, but within a few years, everyone had blended together to form a community.

None forgot the day they were driven from their kingdom. Many still wore mourning braids for those who didn't survive, clutched what it is they had left of their loved ones, and told stories where all were heroes. Once, Fíli and Kíli had run up to Thorin, Frerin, and Fidan, babbling on about the gory details that the city grandma Beli had passed on to them. Fidan and Thorin had gasped in horror, while Frerin fought to contain his laughter. 

Reminiscence of a calmer life brought a faint smile to Thorin’s face. He remembered when it was Dwalin, Frerin, himself, and Dis camping miles away from the city. They sat around a pitiable fire and told all these stories, twisting them so that they would sound more interesting or completely unbelievable. When Dis finally brought Fidan to one of their yearly camps, both brothers and Dwalin did their best to tease and embarrass her. Perhaps it was his smile or longing eyes toward the newcomer that Thorin noticed first, but he knew it then, before Frerin did. It was a secret, though, one they held to this very day.

By nightfall, Thorin and Dwalin had reached Hobbiton. Tharkûn had told them it was safe, but Thorin still would have liked to look around. Dwalin gave his concerns and they checked their carry-on ammo supply before tapping foreheads and taking different paths.

Tharkûn’s instructions were vague, but clear. Dwalin had understood less specific orders before. The mark the old man had left on the door held a strange glow to attract the eye, and for that Dwalin was thankful. He was not, however, prepared to be met with the shorter, pudgy figure of a confused stranger.

“Dwalin, at your service.” He bowed shallowly before he — unofficially invited —, pressed inside, and hung his coat. For travelling purposes, Dwalin was not heavily armed, but still carried twin axes, a rifle, and a dagger at all times.

“Hm.. Uh- Bilbo Baggins, at yours… I’m sorry, do I-... Do I know you?” The man stammered, following him with slightly too large feet. Dwalin took time to stick his nose through each and every doorway, making sure he lived alone like Tharkûn had said. The larger turned and furrowed his brows.

“No.” Dwalin said simply, then walked the other way. “Which way, lad? Is it down here?”

“Is _what_ down where?”

“Supper. It’s the right time, no? He said there’d be food.” Bilbo stepped in front of Dwalin, face flushed like he had just run several miles. Though, it must have felt that way with legs as short as his.

“He… He said? Who said?”

Before either could draw another breath, Bilbo’s ears perked at the sound of several more knocks on his door. Already annoyed by the inconvenience Dwalin was, he raised a finger to make Dwalin stay, and stomped off. Dwalin ignored it, and made his way to a cookie jar he’d passed earlier. 

The door swung open to reveal two younger men dressed in similar clothing to one another. If he had to guess, they could be cousins at the very least, if not brothers. The taller of the two nudged the other forward.

“Fíli,” the blond said, and bowed quickly.

“And Kíli,” Definitely brothers.

“At your service.” Both bowed in unison before pushing inside, just like Dwalin had earlier. The blond, Fíli, passed Bilbo all of his weapons along with his coat, nodding once he was satisfied.

“Careful, I just had ‘em sharpened.” He squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder perhaps harder than necessary. Kíli took to scraping the bottom of his boots on a chest near the door, and Bilbo threw the things in his hands to the floor before sternly walking over.

“That— _Please_ do _not_ do that, that is my mother's glory box!” He sputtered, quickly swiping at the mud Kíli had left from his shoes. Dwalin lumbered toward the brothers and led them both away, leaving Bilbo to grab his own hair by the roots in frustration. 

—

Somewhere outside the warmth of Bilbo’s home, the last nine others had finally caught up, hauling plentiful packs and hopefully a means for transportation. They bickered most of the way, playful jabs at each other that unintentionally went further than tricksy nudges and trippings. The group looked clumsy and barely functional from afar; loud and rowdy.

A young, red headed male, lean but sturdy, draped himself over an older, exasperated man. His arm was stretched in front of their faces, making indistinct gestures.

“You know, out there,” he said, hand going into a curving motion. “He won't have us–”

“Nori…” The man warned, a hand clasping over the red head’s wrist.

“I mean, he will…” He added quickly, and tugged his arm away. “But if he didn't— you can't jump to his safety all the time, y’know that right, Dori?”

Dori stopped his steps, fists clenched to display the whites of his knuckles. “You know nothing of his well being. Where were you when Amad _passed_?” His voice splintered. “When we needed you?”

Two brothers, one with outrageously thick hair for his age, and the other wearing a medic’s pack, each clutched to one side of a worn map, pointing and arguing the next vague route to walk. They were in the front— for some reason—, occasionally looking up to point to a tree all of them had sworn they'd seen twice before.

“The old man said it was west!” The medic argued, pointing in a direction that was definitely not west.

“You're pointing _south_ , ye’ old coop! He said north!”

Behind the group, a little duo had started that worked to keep a salt and pepper haired man, sporting the edge of an axe blade planted in his forehead, on the trail. One had a hat that the others had called silly, the other was a tad heavy, but carried his weight well enough. 

The next time Bilbo heard the ring of his doorbell, he looked as if he were about to explode. He considered not answering the door at all, but Dwalin's glare persuaded him otherwise. 

“Go away, and bother somebody else. If… if this is some blockhead’s idea of a joke, I can only say, it is in very poor taste.” Bilbo muttered as he pulled the door open. 

Several men toppled in, falling over one another in a shouting pile. Behind them stood Tharkûn, and beside him, a white haired man with an interesting beard. It reminded Bilbo of the fabled Santa Claus.

“Gandalf..” Bilbo, rendering himself defeated, let all ten in. Immediately— and to their host’s dismay—, they started to set the table for their own little feast, laughing and catching up like they were all good friends. 

—

Thorin walked the winding dirt paths of Hobbiton, learning they had arrived in The Shire, and made a mental note to ask Ori for a general map later. It was already darker than when he and Dwalin had arrived, the walkways were littered with pebbles and large rocks embedded in the ground, and Thorin found himself half tripping every few steps.

At first, he thought he’d found it, the house Tharkûn instructed, but one, the scratch on the door did not glow, and two, the woman chasing him with an oddly large broom didn't fit the description of a ‘ _short, curly haired man most likely wearing overalls_ ’.

The second time he found himself lost, Thorin stood for a long time staring at the fork where two paths diverged. One path led north, the other led… He didn't even know. He wished he’d dragged Dwalin with him, because then at least one of them would have some sense of direction.

Thorin was two hours late, Dwalin’s reassurance to Tharkûn hadn't been the most convincing, but when the doorbell rang a final time, Tharkûn already knew who it was.

“He's here.” He said, breaking the silence that seemed to fall upon the household. Bilbo hobbled over, following Tharkûn to the door.

“He— who? _Who_ is here? Why don't I like the sound of that?” 

“Gandalf,” Thorin nodded, using the man’s more common name. 

Thorin wasn't anything Bilbo could have imagined when he heard Tharkûn’s ominous ‘he's here’. He expected someone that looked a little less put together, or even more put together, someone humongous, and—… no, Thorin was rather handsome, the way he carried himself said he was respected, confident. He was still intimidating to look at, or even speak to, his voice, in its own, was deep and warm, it reminded Bilbo of chocolate; smooth but rich. 

Bilbo shook himself from the daze and realized he had missed half of the conversation happening before him, the others had already gathered up something for Thorin to eat and drink, and all sat around his dining table to talk.

Just how _long_ had he been gawking?

—

“Óin has read the portents, and the portents say: it is time. We mustn't let this opportunity pass us.” Gloin gestured to his brother, the medic, who was tinkering slightly with a hearing aid of sorts.

“Aye, ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold. When the birds return to Erebor, the reign of the sickness will end. That’s our opening to take back our home.” Óin hadn't actually seen the birds himself, talk and rumors of ravens flying east toward the lonely peak made their way around, if they wanted to reclaim Erebor, others would not be so far behind. 

Bilbo looked confused as he peered in from the door frame, he'd heard of the great migration west, but there had never been any talk— in the Shire— of a sickness. “Uh—… what sickness?”

The entire table shifted its attention to the small man in the back, and Bilbo felt himself shrink under the stares. Finally, Bofur spoke up. 

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne, most think, thought to be inside everyone, actually. When you're dead,” he slid a finger across his throat, then jolted in his seat, “... you're not _really_ dead.” 

“I'm not afraid, really, I'm not. I'm up for it!” The youngest of the group stood from his seat and raised a fist heroically.

“Good lad, Ori!” Gloin praised from across the table.

Balin, who had been standing next to Tharkûn earlier, sighed and chimed in his opinion. “It would be difficult enough with an army. We've only got thirteen, and not even thirteen of the best. Or brightest–”

“Who are you calling dim?!”

—

“Absolutely _**not**_!” Bilbo said in a hushed yell. He'd been handed a contract, read it over, and fainted. A suicide mission was not on his bucket list, nor would it ever be. How could thirteen– fourteen, including himself but excluding Tharkûn, face thousands of… of undead?

There was a brief thought in Bilbo’s head, that what if… all of these men, sitting there in his dining room, were lunatics? Completely batshit crazy from trauma or boredom that they had decided travelling hundreds of miles to die was a good plan?! No one in their right mind would attempt something this absurd, would they?

———————————————


	2. There's A Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Flesh eaters, you know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to call them the Barathaz - Bloody in Khuzdul.
> 
> Slight violence, but not really

———————————————

“What was that?” Bilbo’s head jerked up and turned in different directions. Kíli sat straighter, a serious expression on his face.

“The barathaz.” He said, and looked to Fíli for support. His brother glanced from Kíli, to Bilbo, then back again, and chuckled.

“The… Barathaz?”

Fíli made a throat slicing motion with his finger. “Flesh eaters, you know? There'll be dozens of them out there. Hundreds even.”

“The lands are crawling with them. They strike in the late hours when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.” 

Bilbo, understandably frightened, scurried closer to the fire, and the brothers laughed while nudging each other's shoulders. Thorin had woken up sometime between their teasing, a scowl already on his face.

“You think that's funny? You think a night raid by the dead is a joke?” Thorin sets his gun against his previous spot as he stands, glaring at his nephews.

“We didn’t mean anything by it.” Kíli shrugged, going back to poking the fire with a half burnt stick.

Thorin shook his head. A part of him wished so desperately that he could send them home. Back to Dís. “No, you didn’t.” 

Fíli and Kíli were born some years after the exile from Erebor. It had been a point Thorin tried to stick in their thick skulls. There wasn't room for _mistakes_ or _reckless behavior_. He couldn't be a babysitter to them on this journey.

“Don't worry about him,” Balin said, watching the concerned expression wrinkle Bilbo’s face. 

He would never speak it, but Thorin could still see the look in his grandfather's face and feel the grasp of his hand on his arm. The night the dead had risen again, he swore it to be a dream, a nightmare—. Yet, when he had woken up the next morning, he was no longer wrapped in soft, comfortable furs or lying in a large, springy mattress. Instead, he was draped awkwardly atop his bedroll miles away from his home.

He wasn't very sure what clicked that day, but since then, Thorin had grown. He intended to lead a troop or several hundred back toward the Lonely Mountain to retake the kingdom, only, no one would join him after his grandfather had gone mad and his father's disappearance. No one but these thirteen.

And Bilbo.

—

The first night had come and gone, they were safe for the most part, someone would always keep watch, and for that, Bilbo was glad. The group had plenty of supplies for at least a week or so on the road, but judging by the portions some members needed or took… his estimations could be incorrect. 

Bombur was deemed the 'company chef', the man carried a too-large ladle around like it would be wielded as a weapon. That, and the fact that his cooking was some of the best Bilbo's had since his mother's. 

Fíli and Kíli being left in charge of the horses was one of the worst decisions Thorin and the entire group could have made. 

Tasked with the chore of bringing the brothers their supper, Bilbo made his way to the designated area for the horses. It was neither too far or too close to their little camp, in his opinion. Pushing the low branches of pines away with his elbow, he's greeted with a very confused looking Kíli, and frustrated Fíli.

"What's the matter?" Bilbo squints, handing off each bowl of soup to the brothers. 

Kíli looks around, a finger pointing to each of the horses one by one. "We're... _supposed_ to be looking after the horses—" 

"We had… sixteen," Fíli interrupts, nudging his brother. He took too long to count. 

"Now there's fourteen." 

Bilbo stared at the pair for a long, long time, then back to the scattered horses, then back to the brothers. 

"We should tell Thorin—, he'd kno—"

Kíli catches Bilbo by the sleeve as the shorter man tries to walk back, slight panic straining his voice. "You can't! Err—."

"Uh.. we thought," Fíli gestured to Bilbo's size. "You could help us find them. Best not to worry Thorin more, with the whole leader thing." Besides, it would only show their Uncle that they couldn't be trusted with even the simple task of 'watching the horses'. 

"Right…" Bilbo straightened himself up before prodding around with a twig to find any clues or hoof prints. The ropes are ruggedly cut with a dull blade, he found. 

"Someone armed… and possibly quite dangerous," he observed.

"There's a light!" Fíli darted into a direction, both Kíli and Bilbo following. All three peered from behind the thick bushes in an almost comical, unrealistic way. 

In the clearing were three large men sitting around a high flame. If he heard them right, they were discussing ways to cook the animals they had caught. Those animals being the missing horses. 

"They're going to eat them!" Bilbo yelled in a hushed voice. He may not have spent much time with those horses, but the sentiment was just as strong as if it were his own. "We've got to do something," 

"Yes, you should." Kíli nudged.

"Me—? Wh- no! Why me? No, no, no. Absolutely not, there are three of them, and they're all much bigger than me."

"That's the point, you're small, they'll never see you. It's perfectly safe." 

"We'll be right behind you," Fíli encouraged, "if you run into trouble, give a holler."

"A holler— are you sure this is a good idea?!" When Bilbo turned back to the brothers, both had already gone, and he was alone. A part of him told himself to just go back camp as well to call for help. But the other told him it would be too late by the time he could rouse everyone from the sleepy daze they seemed to be in when he last left them. 

Oh… who's to say he couldn't nick the horses and simply… _leave_?

—

Bilbo had ended up with a blade against his throat, and the entirety of the company throwing their weapons down to 'save his life'.

Tharkûn had seemingly disappeared, Nori cursed the man for leaving them to face actual dangers alone. It should have been easy, though. Fourteen against three, if only these three men weren't whole giants. But, most of the company weren't as young and fast as they used to be. Powerful and strong, still, but older.

With guns held to their foreheads, each of them were bound by their arms and legs with dirty, thick, scratchy rope.

Oh, Mahal, it should have been _easy_. Because Nori was so skilled in getting free from situations like this. Because all of them were strong enough to overtake these three if they only worked in coordination. 

A little more conversation ensued and they learned these men had considered turning toward cannibalism to survive. What better timing for fourteen willing meals and their steeds to walk right into their mouths. 

They pulled a few of them from the pile, surveying which parts to cut off; how to remove flesh _without_ killing the victim. 

"Err—, you can't eat us!" Bilbo yelled out, sitting up from the previous tipped position. "We're… uh, infected!" 

"We're not infected?!"

"We've got the virus, and our flesh is tainted. If you eat us you'll go- you'll go ill!" 

"Tainted, you say?" One of the men asked, the grin on his face wasn't quite sane.

"They don' look bit to me."

"Because they _aren't_ , idiot."

All the noise had attracted some unwanted visitors, and for most of the company, it would be their first encounter with the dead. How they'd gone this long unbothered alone was baffling.

The smell that fell and followed their every step was enough to make half the company cover their noses and mouths. Rotting flesh was not a sight to behold; it hung from the bone, loose and near flaky. Out of, what Oin thought to be, a dislocated jaw, the barathaz growled and snapped as it approached.

"Better them than us, yeah? We'll find dinner elsewhere." One of the captors tugged his friends away, and they ran off into the forest, leaving the company to writhe and struggle against their bounds.

Nori finally got a knife in his hand, and started to awkwardly cut at the rope around his wrists. He bet that Dori was glad he kept _all_ of his blades sharpened now, because by the time the barathaz had leaned close enough to a trembling Bombur, Nori had been free and ready to attack.

"Nori–!" Bofur called, frantic that his brother might become lurker meat.

If anyone had blinked, they might've missed it, Nori, shoving the barathaz back with a boot to the shoulder, and then driving his knife into the skull of it. Then the other, and another. The redhead's face had splatters of mud, blood, and sweat, but it wasn't a bad look; just a bit disgusting.

After dragging the once again lifeless bodies of the dead away, Nori set to cutting each of the company free. He'd saved their lives, then, but didn't quite accept the words of gratitude or 'I owe you my life' claims. Any of them would have done the same… wouldn't they?

———————————————

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated!


	3. Smaug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in death would he value the embrace of wealth above warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory concerning the sickness.

"Can you tell me more about… all this?" Bilbo gestured to the space around himself, meaning everything. "How it started, why Nori didn't bother… using his knife anywhere else?"

Thorin sat stiffly against a tree trunk and thought for a long while. Bilbo was almost ready to say nevermind when he spoke up again. 

"It came to us several years ago, in the mountain, where we are headed now…" 

Thorin heard his heart beat in his ears, his hands gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to swing at anything that passed him. He was pressed to a wall, by choice, peeking around the corner to see if any other survivors were making their way toward him. The halls smelled terrible despite this only going on for hours at the time, so he pulled the top of his shirt over his nose.

Footsteps approached fast, Thorin readied himself but gasped when Balin rounded the corner instead of the dead. 

"Have you seen my father or grandfather?" Thorin breathed, looking Balin over for injuries.

"Not quite," Balin had splotches of blood coloring his night clothes, none of them had been prepared for an attack, especially one like this.

All through the halls, growls and screams could be heard. Thorin led Balin toward an exit, where Dís and Frerin waited. He, again, asked them the same question about their father and grandfather, but both hadn't seen them either.

"... we still do not know what truly causes it." Thorin held a troubled expression.

He remembered finding his grandfather's corpse in the gold room, draped over piles upon piles of riches. Thror had been strange the last months before Smaug, the king spent more and more time among gold than his own people. So it came to little surprise to find him here. Even in death would he value the embrace of wealth above warmth.

His father, Thrain, was never found, but Thorin would have spent his very last breath fighting through the dead if it meant he could have closure. 

Bilbo nodded slowly, questions still swam through his mind like wandering fish. 

"Why is it called 'Smaug'?" He finally decided to ask. It had been circulating his thoughts ever since Bofur mentioned it back in Bag-End.

"It's a story," Thorin's lips quirked into a half smile. "The elders used to tell the children of a terrible dragon that cursed our kingdom with the 'living dead'. Though, I do not like the reason told for the curse."

"What was the reason?" 

"They say Thror, king under the mountain, had become so mad with greed for riches and gems, that when a fire drake from the north came requesting a share of the gold, he refused. Angered, the dragon spoke a curse unto our people until the end of days that would bring the dead back to life." The fire's flames flickered, light casting shadows across Thorin's face that brought the story to life. "It would not be so bad," he thought. "...if only the dead didn't crave our own flesh."

Bilbo's eyes fixated on the way Thorin held himself. Even then, relaxed and calm, he looked as if he could jump at the slightest off feeling. 

They were the only two awake, Thorin on watch, and Bilbo unable to lie still. The others laid scattered about but close. 

"Why me?" Bilbo said after a long time. His blanket had become a half cloak around his shoulders as he wrung his hands.

"Pardon?" 

"Why did you all come to me?" It was still a mystery, why Bilbo had been chosen out of everyone in the Shire. Out of everyone in the world, practically. 

"Tharkûn recommended we recruit you." Thorin answered honestly. He had forgotten exactly what he said, but didn't think it mattered anymore. There was not turning back from now. 

"Ah," a pause. "I will have to ask him when he returns, then."

" _If_ he returns."

" _When_ he returns."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated!
> 
> They really help with my motivation.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated!


End file.
